Part of My Trade
by Nautical Acronym
Summary: Maggie gets a taste of danger and Holmes gets a taste of his ghostly limitations. Fanfic of a fanfic.


**AN:** This story is fanfic of a fanfic that I wrote many years ago and never got around to finishing. I found it today and decided to edit it a bit, get it in shape, and post it. For more context I would recommend reading The Light of Pure Reason by Bixby. Although she never finished it I like to re-read her story from time to time and imagine the sorts of scenarios that Holmes and Maggie could get up to. I adore the premise and hope that other people do as well.

For anyone interested in what the premise is here is the fic description: _When Maggie Hill bought an old magnifying glass in London, she didn't expect to bring home the ghost of Sherlock Holmes. Now she's stuck with a sleuth only she can see, a roommate who doubts her sanity, and a detective agency she didn't know she wanted._

For the purposes of this fic, I think that her roommate is either on vacation or has moved out by this point.

 **Part of My Trade**

On a particularly cold day in January, Maggie Hill and Sherlock Holmes returned from a lengthy investigation only to find the heat in her apartment unexpectedly lacking. While he was unaffected by the temperature she was definitely not- her ears and nose had become an alarming shade of red and her usual smiles were absent.

'The coldest day of the year,' she complained and flipped the switches on her wall. She then opened the refrigerator which sat silent- it's cooling mechanism despondent, 'the coldest day of the year,' she said again, 'and the power gets knocked out. Brilliant. Just brilliant.'

'All will be well in time, girl,' He replied distractedly: his mind was set firmly upon their case. Any minor inconvenience could not shake him from it, especially one which had no effect upon him, 'Now, between the two men we have established a connection, yes? Then it must follow tha-'

'Holmes,' she cut in, 'I'm sorry, but all I can think about is the electricity. I'm tired, I'm cold and I think I might be getting sick,' she punctuated this with a sniffle. Then turned and rummaged through a drawer to produce three candles and a pack of matches. The sun would be setting rather soon. Even now, the last rays of light struggled to illuminate the dim apartment, 'this might actually be a bit of fun,' and there was the smile that had been missing for most of the day. She placed the candles in individual candlesticks, 'as a kid I loved doing everything by candlelight!'

'Indeed, in my time it was necessity.'

'Jeeze, it's bizarre to imagine,' she replied, her eyes wide as she grimaced at the thought, 'hey! Maybe this will be fun for you too! Remind you of the old days and stuff and such.'

She lit the candles one by one and set them atop the kitchen table rather than the counter. As she arranged them their soft glow graced her tired features. Despite her limp hair and rumpled clothing he was suddenly struck anew by her image; an occurrence which was disturbingly frequent as of late. Even in the most bizarre situations he would find his eyes drawn to her and, no matter her state, she always struck him fresh as if she were the first flower of spring…

It was a ridiculous notion, worthy of ridicule. He turned sharply from her dropping the overly sentimental thought and seated himself upon the sofa.

'I'm going to change. Once I'm warm and cozy-electricity or not-we can talk about it, okay?' she cast a smile over her shoulder and added, 'I'm not trying to be difficult. I promise.'

'Hmmm, hard to believe,' He replied with his own mischievous smile.

'Oh, dear,' She declared feigning concern, 'I fear I'm rubbing off on you, Holmes.'

'A most deplorable situation,' He concurred. She laughed and went to her room.

For an instant he let everything stop. He crossed his legs and lay back upon the sofa which gave nary a whisper to his non-existent weight. He shut his eyes and allowed his mind to go completely blank before, piece by piece, he began to reconstruct their investigation. Whether it was minutes or hours he could hardly have said for in his head he ran situation after situation all of which fitting the clues with which their efforts today had furnished them with.

The clock ticked, the upstairs neighbour spoke on the telephone, and the refrigerator made no noise at all. Someone knocked at the door. They knocked again and then for a third time.

'Maggie!' Holmes called, frustrated by the interruption, 'the door!'

'Thanks!' she called emerging from her room in a pair of bright pajamas, 'It might be someone from the city. They do that when the power goes out.'

He only half listened as he tried to remember which scenario he was working on.

'Hello,' Holmes looked up to see the man at the door who was as tall as himself, if he was not mistaken, and so strapping that it looked as though it took him a great deal of effort to get dressed. This man was also neither a city worker nor an electrician.

'Are you Miss Magnolia Hill?' The man politely asked and glanced at his clipboard.

'Yes,' she replied uneasily as the man flipped his page forward then back, 'can I help you?'

'Maggie!' Holmes yelled, 'Close the door!' but it was too late. In a moment the man had dropped the clipboard and grabbed her hard around the arm. He dragged her into the apartment. Another man slipped in as well and closed the door behind him, quickly moving down the hallway, throwing open the doors and closets as he went. Maggie attempted to scream but was effectively stopped by a large hand pressed against her mouth. His knuckles held her face like a vice and though she tried to bite him she could do nothing in his grip.

'Maggie!' Holmes shouted again, but he was useless to her.

She struggled against the man, but using his bulk he pressed her against the wall, trapping her.

'Make even a sound and I will hurt you,' he said calmly into her hair. She cried.

'Stay calm, Maggie,' Holmes said coming to her side, 'stay calm,' he said again, 'I'm here with you.' Her bright green eyes were red with tears, their edges sloped with terror, but she looked at him. Even in distress and with his physical limitations, she trusted him. Later, much later, he would think of it again and feel it strike him to the core.

'Now, here's the reality of this situation,' the man whispered- quiet and cold. He removed his hand from her mouth, 'we know you've been watching us for some time. We know why. We know who you work for and we also know, obviously, where you live. We aren't here to ask questions, got it?' Maggie was silent and still sobbing.

'Agree with him, girl!' Holmes breathed.

'I said, you got it?' and he punctuated the question by bashing her against the wall.

'Yes!' she finally cried, 'Yes!'

'This is a warning. If you don't back off, then we will be back, Miss. Hill.'

'Just say "okay", Maggie.'

'Okay,' she gasped out, 'okay.'

The strapping man dropped her and waited for the other man to return.

'You should be careful,' he added, looking disdainfully down at the poor girl, 'you're playing a dangerous game.'

Despite her fear Maggie was not the sort to take anything lying down. With the last of her resolve she pushed herself to her shaking feet. The man must not have felt any sort of concern as he took his time to turn away. Once on her feet she said, with only the slightest tremor in her voice,

'Danger is part of my trade.'

With a sudden swing she cracked the man with a frying pan from the stove. He was dazed but for a second and in a fury the man punched her clear across the face which sent her into the dining room table. The tablecloth and the candlesticks there upon crashed to the floor atop of her and in the silence that followed she didn't move.

'Shit!'

Both of the men ran for the door. It swung on its hinges as the sound of their departing footfalls echoed down the hall.

'Good God, Maggie! What the devil were you thinking?' Holmes stooped down to where the girl still lay. 'Maggie?' There wasn't an answer. Her eyes were closed and he could still see the shallow breaths, but no matter how he tried she was not waking. His eyes caught something shiny in her hair and saw with alarm the sticky, red pool forming below her head.

'By God, Maggie, wake up!'

Her hand, the left one, spasmed, but the rest of her remained motionless. He couldn't call for help and he couldn't help her. He pressed one hand to her face knowing the gesture would be useless. His immaterial form simply passed through her with no more effort than walking through an open doorway.

A still lit candle lay dangerously close to the cloth, but after a moment the thing sputtered and went out. Had it not done so was more than he could bare to think upon.

All he could do was wait.

Eventually her neighbour came, eventually the paramedics. Maggie, still unconscious, was rushed from the apartment and her neighbour- the bricklayer- was kind enough to close the door.

Holmes sat. His magnifying glass had been left in her bag by the door- a cursed object that, tethered as he was to it, prevented him from following Maggie to hospital.

At first he had paced, then sat, then angrily stood to pace again. He retreated to her room and perused it with an intensity which he would have reserved for something more in line with his work. When his eye caught the Conan Doyle book on her shelf he cursed out loud and flung himself from the room.

Her blood was a smear across the kitchen floor and he stared at it for a long time.

Was this to be his reward for all that he had done? For all that he achieved? His immaterial state was a curse to him and, for the first time he had realized, to Maggie. What good was a partner who couldn't defend you, who couldn't aid you in a time of need? Had he been corporeal he would not have hesitated to defend Miss Hill. To throw himself in harm's way if it meant she could be spared. His fists clenched at his sides and his jaw tightened. This mad state was unacceptable- not alive nor dead, but spread thinly onto reality- left in a state where he could not affect, but could be affected. He was keenly aware that he was still able to feel despair, but lacked any means to cope with it. He had no tobacco for thinking, no solution for boredom, and, now, he had possibly lost his only companion.

In the darkness of the apartment the void between him and eternity stretched out vividly in his mind. The thought was as monstrous as it was terrifying.

Holmes laid flat on the floor and looked out the window to the stars.


End file.
